Just tell me it’s impossible for someone / to stop being invincible later on after starting out that way.
I’m no busboy, Bunny, I’m a yachtsman.
This is when I’d like to see gravity happen.
The rope almost loops / in an obvious feast of beheading.
I don’t mean to sing disaster.
nobody really owns the wild beast they raise / until they learn to cry
I looked in the mirror and saw myself stealing things with a devil.
my question to you is how will we hold off distress
It means you can still feel the heavy thrum of thigh / on saddle, can smell the man’s blood-hunger
but the girl stayed dancing / underwater a wild catfish tangled in broken whiskers / until you couldn’t tell them apart
Visiting Assistant Professorship and Other Loose Associations.
First he suspected she swallowed / the pins herself from compulsion, but then no, that was not it.
What’d’ya mean you don’t know me? / I’ve bought bibles off you before!
I stepped so cleanly out / the leeches clinked and fell
Who’s coughing? It’s my throat, that’s all. / Really, no.—I never saw you.
The trouble with night // is morning, she’s singing, wringing out socks / over a tub
He saw kind rich men walking through the dark as if through a city.
if we have migraines, eczemas, allergies: / day
Be still in rootless snowmelt, in the shh- / there-it-is revelation of dirt
A conversation between poets about writing place, time, technology, and transformation.
How we blink and chew and find ourselves // cubicle-hunched, tightened under humming fluorescents
I lose my mind, you’re without foreskin.
Tomas Hachard talks with the award-winning poet about ‘border poetry,’ cultural access, and the politics of writing about nature.
Poet Jaswinder Bolina discusses writing about race, the process of being translated, and more.
What kind of person walks over the bones of slaves? / What kind of person is a slave to bones?
Major, It’s been a hell of a ride
When they finish, let them lob / the spent meat and mumped skin / like siege shot.
This is the vocabulary of killing.
Camille Gage interviews the poet, activist, and director of Split This Rock.
The worst thing we can think of, we’ve done
Only two geese at midnight, only one within my range.
Keith Meatto talks with poet Gina Myers about leaving New York, darkness in poetry, and the difference between growing up and settling down.
Once the bone has been ground up, who, through muslin, would recognize her hand from a dog’s paw?
Live an orchard life then pulp it for another.
The author of Small Porcelain Head on how poetry can help us mourn.
As part of our celebration of National Poetry Month, a conversation on Lynn Melnick’s collection If I Should Say I Have Hope.
Alexander Landfair talks with a poet equally enthusiastic about Wuthering Heights and Resident Evil.
To kick off National Poetry Month, the deputy director of the Poetry Society of America talks with Erica Wright about institutional rivalry, poetic diplomacy, and encountering verse in unlikely places.
We see the night / for what it really is, a house / for our bodies
Starve us, // stave off hyenas with our youth— / our muscle as protein, lion’s bait.
A prose poem on Bush’s chauvinist rhetoric, the torture at Abu Ghraib, and other devastating aspects of the War in Iraq—ten years to the day after it began.
Letters from a quarter century of correspondence between the acclaimed American poet and the Swedish Nobel Prize winner.
Under this desk I have hidden / for two months. I have tried / at shadowy. Have failed / at being wonderful.
The anthology includes Guernica contributors in all three categories—poetry, fiction, and non-fiction.
An interview with the poet on his debut collection Charms Against Lightning.
Everyone’s face reminds me of a buried city, cars up on blocks leaning through // the slanted light (like jail cells)…
…their sleeping, their dormancy, / how it stirred in me a hunger / black as a pocked tooth.
Oftentimes the bourbon distilleries in this land I’ve pitched / my tent in under-distribute for what I have in mind.
After a decade of absence, the Mexican-American author and activist returns to the literary scene to discuss her new book, what it takes to ‘compost’ grief into light, and the long road for writers of color.
The professor and critic turns to technology explosions past—think typewriters, gramophones, and radios—to map the modern intersections of information and art.
The poet C.D. Wright discusses book-length works, the political in art, and more.
The whole time he tells you what to do. / His voice is chocolate candy filled with hysteria. // He is a loving blackmailer. An owl blind in one eye.
Here at the continent’s end, fortifications / linger for the end of the world. They greet // each California morning, these barracks in the fog. / Below, the lagoon is gunmetal, or mercury poured.